the circle

The canopy over the freshly dug grave isn’t nearly big enough to keep all of us dry.

So we surround it on all sides with umbrellas and try to keep from poking each other’s eyes out as we say our final prayers — and goodbyes.

I am literally standing on Grandma Trudi’s grave and thinking of one of her favorite quips — the one about shivering and someone or something running across your grave.   A mouse?

She might have a chuckle over this —

If she wasn’t so sad.

A little over a year ago we brought her here to rest beside grandpa.  Today the ground opposite him is open for their youngest son.

Their baby. 

I am thinking about the months and days and moments of grace leading up to this gathering when I extend my hand to take the rose my cousin offers. 

Yellow — she  said the day before —

For friendship, peace and joy.

I bow my head and bury my nose in the rich fragrance that seems more profound in the pouring rain.  When I lift my eyes, I watch her place the last few dots of yellow to close the huge arc she’s been making—

Erasing the beginning —

And the ending —

With this beautiful symbol of eternity —

This ginormous circle of people that says it all.

The only thing that really matters in life are your relationships to other people.

love one another

God heals the world two by two.

I’ve always believed this on some level —

Actually romanticized it more than anything —

But last Saturday, within the ”architectually significant” walls of St. Clements Catholic Church in Chicago’s Lincoln Park —

I felt it.

And I know I wasn’t alone.

That afternoon — helped by the solemnity of the space, the music, the words, the occasion — 

And in no small part —

The intentions of the couple being united —

An entire community of souls swelled with love for one another — in the obvious and expected ways —

And in places once so broken —

That the return of love could only be experienced as —

Divine.  

These sacred moments remind me that while people — myself included — often make choices that turn us away from love — 

Love never leaves.

We always have a choice —

To let God heal the world. 

Two by two.

 

“I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health.  I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

graveside

The sun reflects off the snow onto the face of my sister standing next to me graveside.

The patterns made on her face by years of life mirror mine. 

Around our eyes — and especially —

Our mouths. 

Identical, I think —

Even down to the size and location of that blasted age spot on my right cheek I’ve been trying to banish.

It’s as if I see us, today, for the first time — sisters born 14 months apart — me first, her second —

In real time.

Me 49.  Her 48. 

Present for a good-bye that strips the last of an entire generation from the picture —

A milestone that makes us — and our contemporaries — realize we’re but one layer away from the finish line.

And I can’t help but thinking — while I still can, it’s time to —

Run!

Run, Julie —

Run!

bon appetit

“What’s this stuff on the plate?  You got it too.”

“I — don’t — know.”

“I finally get a salad and now it’s filled with hard boiled eggs.”

“Pick ’em out.”

“Can’t.  Too many.  And they’re broken up.” 

“Maybe they thought they were doin you a favor —” 

 ”I’m not even supposed to be here! — I’m supposed to be downstairs getting a permanent!!”

“Come and help me.”

“Will you come and help me?”

“Nurse.  Nurse!”

“This has hard boiled eggs.  I don’t like hard boiled eggs.  I want plain lettuce.”

“Dressing?”

“Roquefort.”

“Just a few more sips, grandma.”

“Let’s go now.  Put me back to bed.”

“Drink a little more of your milk and we’ll go.”

“Italian, french and ranch are your choices.”

“I’ll take ranch.”

“I want my permanent.  Now!”

“Come and help me.”

“That’s good.  You’re doin good grandma.”

“They’re out of lettuce — will you take a bologna sandwich?”

“— oh for cryin out loud.”

When grandma was asked if she’d like to get up for dinner on May 1, her response was, “should we try it?  Let’s try it.”

She wasn’t referring to the cuisine.

In the remarkable way she had of never giving up she always found a way to make something good out of  whatever she had left. 

And that’s why it should come as no surprise that she used every last molecule of herself in her remaining days to put the finishing touches on the everlasting bond she created between the people she loved. 

When she took her last breath on May 11 and her body went flat beneath the sheet, my first thought was “there’s absolutely nothing left.  She’s left nothing on the table.”

But in the weeks that followed, I’ve found I couldn’t be more wrong.

She left us the most incredible feast of memories, relationships, and values imaginable. 

Bon appetit. 

ramblin rose

It’s 1960 something.  The windows in the tiny second floor apartment above the office are wide open.  Sheets and undergarments dangle from the clothesline in the parking lot below.

The hi-fi blares.  A cigarette burns in an ashtray. 

“Mother never really smoked a cigarette.  She just lit it and let it burn,” my aunt recalls.

I remember.

The ash grows and curls precariously.   We watch and wait for the ash snake to drop so the next act can begin. 

Grandpa flies across the room with an ashtray.  Catches it in the nick of time, saving the carpet from another burn mark. 

“Mark my words, this is how we’re gonna go,” he’d say. 

Mark my words, that’s not how she went.

The hi-fi blares.  Her highball is gettin low. 

But she keeps going  — and going — and going.

It’s May 2, 2008. 

The hard brown candy shells on the buds are about to burst.  Tiny rivers of green are visible in the crackles.  I know spring is coming, but I can’t tell you when. 

I sit and wait.  And I hear that snow is on the way.  Again. 

My beautiful grandma lays awake, eyes shut, body transparent and breaking down with every breath.  “What part of me is disappearing?” she asks.

The part that doesn’t matter, I want to say.  And it’s what I believe.  But as long as she’s physically present, I will cling to her vine — however diminished. 

“Ramblin rose, ramblin rose/

why you ramble, no one knows/

wild and wind blown/

that’s how you’ve grown/

who can cling to/

a ramblin rose?”

Oh, you bet I can.  Because she planted herself inside me.  Inside of all of us.

The hi-fi blares.  Her patience flares.

She struggles, but does not give up.  We keep watch and remember her feisty ways — 

“Hi Tony, is your mother there?”

“No grandma, she’s not home.  I’ll tell her to call you when she gets in.”

Click.  Grandma hangs up.  And then redials. 

Tony picks up the phone.  For the third time in 10 minutes.

This time Grandma is silent.

“Grandma, I know it’s you.  I can hear your music.”

“Ok, ” she admits, “it’s me!  Have her call me when she gets home.”

It’s May 8, 2008.

The rhythm of Mother Angelica reciting the rosary controls our breathing.  She is turned on her side facing me in the bed next to her.  My head is on her pillow touching hers.  She holds one of my hands.  Her other hand is draped over my back. 

I drift off.

She sits up in my dream.  Gets up to walk.

I startle awake.  Hold her closer.

“Help me,” she says.

“How can I help you?  Please tell me.”

“Stay close to me.”

“I’m here.  I won’t leave you.”

It’s May 11, 2008. 

The clock in my parents’ living room where I am sleeping on the sofa strikes twelve times.  It’s Mother’s Day Grandma.  You made it.  I get up to kiss her. 

The buds on the trees are about to burst.  But I still can’t tell you when. 

It’s two o’clock in the morning on May 11. 

The hi-fi blares.  She raises her hand to let us know. 

We stay close to her and hold her hands when she goes.

Yes, Grandma I know —

I will always know it’s you —

I can hear your music.

harbor lights

Harbor Lights

Oh glorious day

you shine upon us like her smile

we float and glide

with the melody in the wind today

held closely in eachother’s arms

where you put us.

 

© May 12, 2008 Julie Stevens

Dear Jesus, the vision of your face brings us exquisite joy. 

with you

Mother Mary

We come to your garden

to remember Him.

At your feet we lay our gratitude

for your grace.

We surrender our earthly burdens

and accept the mystery of your miracle.

Mary, with your image in our hearts,

we possess everlasting calm.

We worry not if or when

our gardens will bloom,

trusting by His hand

all beauty meant for us

will be perfectly timed.

 

Ó Julie Stevens 1999

when sandrine knocks

The breakdown of body and mind is eventual and unpredictable — yet inevitable.

Whether we are moving along our unique continuum with the best intentions — or in denial — it matters not.  We will all reach a state where we are less in body and mind than we once were. 

And if we are lucky, or blessed, or enlightened — whatever you wish to call it — we will not be diminished.  In fact, we will become more.

This has never been more evident to me than in the moments of grace spent with my soon-to-be-97-year-old grandma. 

A week ago I tucked her in before leaving her, a process that took both physical and emotional muscle on my part.

“Turn me on my side,” she says, waving an arm in the direction of the bed rail.  I place her hands on the bar so she can help me shift her upper body from her back to her right side.  The lower half will be all mine.

“Now move the fanny!  Get behind and push,” she commands. 

“Geez grandma, kinda bossy, aren’t you?”  I find some leverage, lift and then heave.

“I’m a bitch — that’s me,” she laughs.  I come back around to face her, bend to pull the covers closer to her chin. 

“Oh, that’s not true.  I think you’re nice.”

“I don’t try to be good or bad.  I just am what I am.  Some people think I’m nice, others think I’m naughty.  It doesn’t matter — it’s only what’s in their minds.”

I kiss her forehead, nose and both cheeks before flicking the light off. 

“Good night Grandma.  I love you.”

“I love you too.  Let’s do this again real soon.”

After a day of family chatter that included Last Rites, hospice arrangements and packing funeral dresses, I thought I was there to say good-bye. 

Instead, I left filled with peace and deeper understanding. 

The words of Jean-Dominique Bauby, a victim of “locked in syndrome” at age 43, touch me profoundly at this time.  Imprisoned in an inert body, able to communicate only by blinking his left eye, Jean-Do wrote a book using a communication system devised by a brilliant and selfless speech therapist. 

Her name was Sandrine.

“Quite apart from the practical drawbacks, this inability to communicate is somewhat wearing.  Which explains the gratification I feel twice daily when Sandrine knocks, pokes her small chipmunk face through the door, and at once sends all gloomy thoughts packing.  The invisible and eternally imprisoning diving bell seems less oppressive.”

Blessed are the Sandrine’s of this world.

They bridge heaven and earth.

I dedicate this piece to my sister Jackie who is the Sandrine in Grandma Trudi’s life.  She’s made sure Trudi has choices and access to what matters most to her — a phone with braille speed dialing, clean clothes, her favorite tunes and rosary channel, conversations with loved ones who cannot visit.  Now, as we enter “end of life care”, she has arranged to give Trudi more control of her days and nights.  Even how often she bathes — which is something others may have something to say about if she wants visitors.

comb down artist

“Oh my god Julie, you should have seen it the other day!

“She looked like a rooster!”

Picturing Grandma with a gleaming silver mohawk makes me grin, but I’m also a little distressed. 

Ten minutes ago my phone rang and “Trudis” flashed on the screen.   I said hello to silence.  Then coughing. 

“Grandma!  It’s Julie, are you there?

“Grandma!  — Grandma!”

Silence.  Faint breathing.  Another cough.  Slighter this time. 

I’m afraid to hang up.  I don’t want to break my connection with her.  But she’s not responding —

So I call my sister.

“I’m serious,” she continues, “they’re down staff and a mad man’s got the comb —

“Yesterday, Alli and I were there and it was combed straight down.   One long sweep from the back of her neck to her forehead.”

Premeditated, I think.  Some kind of signature?

“And then, I go out into the TV area where they’re all lined up,” she stops to take a breath, “and you are never going to believe this —”

Oh, yeah?

“Every last one of ‘em — heads hangin’ down — with the same hair!”

I’m roaring now, imagining this joker armed with spray bottle and comb going down the assembly line.  Just doin’ his job. 

Efficient little devil.

 

that’s enough

How do you know when you’ve had enough? 

I mean, really.  Just stop to ask yourself this question about something you’re doing or that’s going on in your life — and you’ll see — this is a question you don’t have the answer to ahead of time.

Oh sure, you can do all the scenario planning you want. 

If this, then that. 

Then this happens —

And you think, well — just one more bite.

And is that enough?  Could be — 

Or not.

“Grandma I think you’re really gonna like this,” my cousin Peter coaxes, loading the tip of a spoon with a tiny tidbit of peach. 

The minute it hits her tongue she screws up her face.  Opens her mouth wide in protest, hoping she’ll be allowed to spit it out.  When it’s finally down, she announces “I’m not a lover of fruit.  Enough.”

He flips the lid off a frosty cup of orange stuff.  Puts a dab on the spoon. 

“Does it taste like orange?”

“No, I can’t say it does.”

“Do you like it?’

“Well, fair— it ain’t the worst.  That’s enough.”

“Do you like cucumbers?”

“No!,” sticking out her tongue.  Aggressively.

“How ’bout a sip of this pink cocktail?”

She bares her teeth at him.  “All right now — that’s enough.  That’s enough bull.”

Oh, Grandma, I hear you. 

God bless you, you have had enough.  But I —

I have not. 

I want one more bite.

One more call.

One more prayer.

One more kiss —